


The Aftermath

by Aoirohi



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 09:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4871110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoirohi/pseuds/Aoirohi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death is never the end, for both the deceased and the living. For those that remain, what is next? How are they supposed to go on? These are the questions that plague the Warrior of Light in the days after. A story of recovery and acceptance from death, with the support and love of family and friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Step

**Author's Note:**

> If you're like me and like to listen to music while reading/writing, I wrote this while listening to:  
> 1) Byakuya - Naruto Shippuden OST

You hear his footsteps long before he speaks, and the urge to run is so powerful that you’re already standing and tightly gripping an aether stone in your hand to teleport away when he comes to a stop at your side. 

“Please,” he says quietly, and you unintentionally tense, “be at ease. I only wish to talk.” 

You look up at him wearily, the stone still tightly gripped in your hand, when a wave of nostalgia washes over you. The way the count stands, his height, tone of voice… the similarities are so clear, you swear that for a moment your vision wavers and it is _him_ that is standing beside you instead. You forcefully blink once more, pressing the heel of your hands into your bloodshot eyes as you do so. 

The action doesn’t go unnoticed. 

When you remove your hands, the count is watching you closely. His lips are set in a firm line while his eyebrows are pulled together in a deep furrow. There is concern in his gaze, and something else you can’t name. You think it is sympathy or pity. You’ve seen so much of both in the last week it is hard to distinguish between them now. 

But then another possibility strikes you, and perhaps you think it is anger that colours his eyes. Of course he is angry. He has just lost a son! By the twelve, no parent should have to bury their child! 

A familiar burn in your throat and eyes grow, and you wonder how many more tears you have left. After seven days of nothing but tears, you were absolutely convinced that today you had none left. But the growing wetness in the corners of your eyes tells you otherwise. 

When he next speaks, you flinch, and the furrow between his eyebrows deepen, “I am told you aren’t eating.” He pauses, gauging your reaction before continuing solemnly, “Nor sleeping. Is this true?” 

For a split second, you entertain the thought of lying to him. But as you raise your head to speak, you catch a glimpse of your distorted reflection on a nearby ice patch, and your appearance says it all. 

Reluctantly, you nod once more. 

The sigh he makes is deep, and his grip tightens around his cane. 

You both fall into a long silence, and just as you begin rolling the aether stone nervously in your hands once more, he turns so that he is facing you squarely. 

Not wanting to be rude, you do the same. But you can’t bring yourself to look him in the eyes, staring instead at the white snow on the ground. 

“I—” You attempt to speak, to fill the heavy silence between you two, but you never get the chance. 

Whatever words you were going to say are lost as you are suddenly pulled against his chest, his arms encircling you tightly. And for a moment, he almost feels like the father you can’t remember having. “I knew of you and Haurchefant,” he admits suddenly, and you freeze. 

What? But the two of you had been as discreet as possible, as _careful_ as possible! How— 

He interrupts gently, “The thing about love, you see, is that once you have experienced it, you can see it everywhere.” 

When you next look at him, there is a sad, wistful smile on his aged face, and in his eyes you can almost understand what he means. His smile is soft when he meets your gaze. “I recognized the way you both looked at each other. It was the way I had once looked at Haurchefant’s mother, many years ago,” he explains. 

You’re silent as you process his words. Haurchefant had spent many a night recounting to you several stories of his mother—a woman whom you wished you could have met. He described her as being strong and yet frail of body, but unbelievably kind with a keen sense of justice. A woman of quiet strength and endless patience with an enthusiastic love for life. 

“How did you…” your voice is scratchy and rough from disuse and long hours of crying, but you persevere. You had to know. “After she… how did you…?” You are sure you sound as desperate as you feel. But a glance at the older elezen reveals no judgement there, only understanding and a hurt you feel just as strongly. His hands on your shoulders are warm, and you realize how much you needed this—how much you needed the warmth of another person. 

Your question, however, pains him. You can see it in his eyes as his hands slide from your shoulders. With a small gesture from him, the two of you settle side by side on the snow, his cane resting between you. A distance still remains, but it no longer feels as wide. 

You aren’t alone in your grief anymore. 

“How did I carry on after she died?” he asks, finishing the question you cannot bring yourself to say. You’re both facing the tombstone, your eyes tracing the engravings on the stone slowly and reverently. 

You nod, waiting for him to think of an answer. 

“I didn’t,” he says at last, and your heart clenches. But he continues, “At first.” 

Snow melts between your fingers as your hands clench into tight fists. 

“It’s not easy, and contrary to what others will tell you, it does not get easier with time,” he sighs, and in it you can hear what his words don’t say. 

There are some wounds that not even time can heal. 

So then what happens from here? You look at him questioningly.

“You wake up, like you do every morning, and you live.” There is conviction—truth, experience—in his voice, and you can believe him because he has already done it once. “You don’t let his sacrifice be in vain.”


	2. The Second Step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Soundtrack:  
> 1) FFXIV Foundation - Night Theme (The Pillars)
> 
> Edit: There seems to be some kind of formatting error with my notes at the end of the chapters. Please bear with me while I try to figure it out QQ

It has been hours since you last spoke with the Count, but his words ring clearly in your ears as though he had just said them.

_"You don’t let his sacrifice be in vain.”_

So deep in your grief, you had never considered this. The pain had been—still is—too great to think beyond the next few moments. But even in your current state, you knew what the Count was trying to tell you. Grieving is well and necessary, but as with everything else, there has to be a limit. You cannot let the grief consume you, though you desperately wish it would.

Haurchefant sacrificed his life for yours.

It is a truth you avoided, for it left a bitter taste in your mouth. Who were you, that another would so selflessly lay down their life for yours? Why were you special?

 _Because you are the_ _Warrior of Light_. A dark and sinister voice whispers this answer in your mind briefly, and in response you can feel your heart constrict painfully in your chest.

Subconsciously, your hand grasps a pendant resting against your collarbone, tucked safely beneath the soft cotton of your tunic. Gently, your thumb caresses the smoothened stone, the memory of when he gave you the gift washing over you and quelling the bitterness and anger that were stirring deep in your chest.

No, you whisper quietly in your head. Haurchefant never once defined you by _what_ you were, but always... always, by _who_ you were. You were his friend, his lover and confidante, and that was all he had ever need—wanted—you to be. And _that_ was why he had died for you.

Because he loved you.

The grief blooms in your chest once more and your tears are your only companion in a restless sleep.

Hours pass before the sun begins to tentatively rise over Ishgard, its gentle rays passing through your window. The fire burns low off to the side, and you can feel the sun’s weak rays try to warm the icy land.

Pulling a robe over your thin night clothes, you walk towards the window and watch some children playing together in the courtyard as they make their way to school.

Today, you think, you will try.

The house is quiet, as one would expect shortly after sunrise, and the house is only beginning to stir with the sounds of life as the servants start their day. Alphinaud and Tataru, however, are still fast asleep. They always are till the first morning bell, an hour before breakfast—a meal that you haven’t partaken in, or shared, in the last two weeks. Assured by the fact that you won’t encounter them yet—you’re not ready to face those sympathetic stares and unsure gazes—you find the confidence to dress and execute your plan for the day.

Despite the early hour, and against your expectations, there are already some servants going about their tasks in efficient silence. You quietly greet any that pass your way, but you don’t stay long enough to hear their reply, or analyze the surprise in their expressions.

The streets are beginning to hum with life as children who are running late dash through the streets to their classes, their mothers close behind with disapproving scowls. More merchants and soldiers are also beginning to fill the streets, including messengers and clergymen. You don’t stick around long enough for any to recognize your face.

The Forgotten Knight is quiet when you step the through doors and make your way down the steps. Gibrillont looks at you from his usual spot behind the bar counter where he is carefully polishing a mug. “You’re early today,” he says carefully.

You nod and take a deep breath before asking quietly, “...is Jandelaine in town?”

Gibrillont pauses briefly, looking over his shoulder at one of his workers, “Is the Master in town, Bamponcet?”

“Aye, or so I hear. Word has it that the young master returned to see his brother, Master Guillefresne.” Bamponcet looks at you with a small smile, “Would you like me to send a message to Master Jandelaine?”

“Yes, if it isn’t a bother,” you reply shyly, a little regretful to bother the two elezen you’d gotten to know over the last few months. You had met with the eccentric, but spirited aesthetician many times in Limsa Lominsa where you first met, but this would be the first time meeting him in his hometown of Ishgard.

Bamponcet nodded, “Not at all, my lady. If you’ll wait in one of our rooms, we’ll send the young Master right up when he arrives.”

With a grateful smile, you make your way to one of the rooms in the inn, and wait.

The room is dusty, as it always is, and the sun pours through the windows much in the same way it did in your room back at the Fortemps manor. The rays highlight the thin layers of dust as they swirl in the air, and it doesn’t take long for you to retreat within your thoughts. The still silence is broken, however, when the door suddenly bursts open, and a familiar voice fills the room.

“As once did this very realm, from the darkest depths of unseemly ugliness shall you rise anew. Prepare yourself!”

Despite your mood, you can’t stop the smile that tugs at your lips as you greet the young lord from your place at the edge of the bed.

Jandelaine’s smile widens, and for a moment, you are reminded of _him_ and you quickly turn away to hide the tears building in the corners of your eyes.

Silence fills the space between you both before you hear him walk towards you, the old mattress dipping a little with his weight as he sits at your side. His tools are resting carefully to his far left.

His artful hands are clasped together in front of him, elbows resting on his knees. He doesn’t say anything at first, and bewildered, you keep yourself turned away.

When he does speak next, his voice is unusually soft, and for once, you hear a well-mannered lord of a prestigious house rather than the boisterous, passionate man you have come to call a friend.

“I have heard about what happened,” he murmurs, and your breath catches in your throat. “I am truly sorry for your loss.”

You hunch over, hands covering your face—how terrible you must look—and the tears, unbidden, fall from your already red and tired eyes.

A heavy, warm weight settles across your shoulders, gently coaxing your head to rest against him. He continues speaking, and through your tears you can’t do much more than listen.

“I only knew Lord Haurchefant in passing,” he starts lightly, conversationally, “through the things my brother would tell me whenever he reported of home. But he was a good man, a good leader, and a faithful friend. Lord Francel and my brother spoke highly of him, you see, and I knew my brother who was good friends with Lord Francel, would always be in good hands as long as Haurchefant was there.”

You shudder as you try to suppress another sob, and Jandellaine tightens his grip on your shoulder.

“It is okay to cry, my friend. As you have helped me, so shall I return the favour and listen to whatever worries you carry. Then, when your tears are spent, I shall recreate your beautiful image anew. And like a phoenix, you shall rise above the ashes of your despair!” His voice rose in an inspiring cadence, as was his wont, but it still held that careful tone that was so unusual to your ears.

Unable to say much more, you whisper a quiet thank you, leaning your full weight against his side as your tears and grief grip you tightly.

It is well past noon by the time your tears manage to stop and Jandellaine has a proper chance to style your hair. It is radically different than any other hairstyle you’ve previously had, and as you run your fingers through the strands, you smile to yourself. It feels good.

Once his tools are put away carefully in their case, Jandellaine smiles, “Where once stood a dishevelled shell of a woman, there now shines... a beauty reborn!”

“Thank you, Jandellaine,” you say gratefully, willing as much sincerity as you can in your words.

The passionate elezen smiles, “Anytime, my friend. Fare thee well, and mayhaps we shall see each other not before long!”

“Of course,” you nod, arms crossed over your chest as you watch him approach the door.

There is one more look shared between you both, before he nods as well, and then is gone.

The rest of the afternoon passes by in something like a blur. The hours pass, and the bells ring, but they are distant concepts and sounds to your deeply contemplative mind.

Your feet bring you back, as always, to the memorial and you spend the rest of the day there.

But this time, there are no tears.

Instead, you tell _him_ of all the things you’ve learned, trying to put your pent-up feelings over the past two weeks into words: your frustration, your sorrow, your uncertainties. But most of all, you can feel the deep wound in your heart beginning to heal. It will be a slow process, you know this intuitively, but today you feel lighter—freer—than you have since the beginning of this nightmare.

For once, the evening sky is clear over Ishgard, and it is littered with millions of stars that light your way. Your steps are careful and slow as you walk down the steps of the Last Vigil, approaching the manor.

The air is crisp against your skin, and the lighter strands of your recently-cut hair tickle just a little.

He is still gone, and the pain still lingers—fiercely, in fact—deep in your chest. But there is a small warmth burning inside of you now, where before there was only a chill colder than a Coerthan winter.

You’re surprised to find, once you finally reach the steps of the manor, that it isn’t the regular guard waiting there to let you in. Instead, it’s the Count himself, and he’s watching you with a knowing expression in his aged eyes. There are many things you want to say to him, to hear from him, having found a father figure in the kind sire of your passed lover.

“You cut your hair,” he says finally, his voice light and deceptively neutral.

Self-consciously, you lift a hand and run your fingers through the strands, nodding with a tentative smile. Is that okay, you wonder. Was it a stupid idea?

His answer comes in the form of a warm smile and a few simple words, “It suits you well.”

Your smile grows as you follow the tall elezen into the manor, bowing your head at an approaching guard who blinks in surprise before returning your smile with one of his own.

It is a start, and for now, that is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually updated. *stunned stare* It's taken me months to hammer this chapter out (it really felt more like pulling teeth, tbh. Thank you writer's block :/ ) and even now I'm still not entirely happy with. But I've been holding onto this chapter since Christmas/New Years and I've worried and fussed over it to the point where I don't think I cant change it anymore. Despite that, I hope it's still enjoyable. 
> 
> As you can see, the WoL is still very much raw in her feelings, and has only begun the road to recovery and acceptance after nearly two weeks of solitude. So while it's a start, there are still a few things she'll need to work through before she'll willingly seek out a few other characters (or until some get fed up and find her, lol). 
> 
> Again I'm sorry it took me so long to update, and I really hope it was worth the wait. 
> 
> As always, please leave a comment if you want to discuss anything (my writing, your head canons, thoughts, opinions, anything! I love discussions!)
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> Note: If the formatting for my end-chapter notes seems weird or "off", I apologize. I posted this really late at night and internet bugs at 3 in the morning is not my strongsuit.


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